


Money From the Government

by vamm_goda



Series: Money From the Government [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Not Hockey Players, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Dubious Consent, Hooker AU, M/M, Pretty Woman References, Sex Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-13
Updated: 2011-08-13
Packaged: 2017-10-24 17:37:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/266105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vamm_goda/pseuds/vamm_goda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Claude's been on this corner of Philly for sixteen months and he's never believed in romance or hope, but then this guy named Danny shows up, and Danny believes in him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sex worker AU, so the following potential triggers apply:  
> POV character expresses poor self esteem  
> Power imbalance  
> Dub-con in regards to sex work  
> References to rough and/or violent sex, sometimes not negotiated  
> Overly romanticized 'Pretty Woman' style ending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a little over 13,000 words that started out as chatfic. Audienced/written for/beta'd by [](http://lobsterclaaaws.livejournal.com/profile)[**lobsterclaaaws**](http://lobsterclaaaws.livejournal.com/)

Blake says no one ever really loved him  
They just faked it to get money from the government  
  
-Amanda Palmer, "Blake Says"

\\\

Claude has been out on this same corner with Richie and Jordy and the rest of the guys for what feels like forever but is actually only sixteen months, give or take a few nights. Ever since he blew out his knee beyond repair and couldn’t make it home again.

He’d tried panhandling to get home. He’d tried a little bit of everything, but desperation is a quick teacher and he’s been doing this for sixteen months and four nights, ticked down with kisses and quick touches that hurt worse than any hit on the ice ever could. The thing is, he’s been doing it that right amount of time between losing his soul and actually hoping that maybe this next time won’t be so bad. He still has his soul, and he knows this next time is gonna be just as bad as that last time, just probably in completely different ways.

There’s no favorite time to be out here, but fall isn’t too bad. He can wear his one coat and it’ll be enough for most of the night, and he can usually lean against Richie or James when he starts to shake too hard to answer questions properly. He can’t afford to be sloppy or weak seeming, because Claude?

Like it or not Claude is a professional.

He’s been doing it long enough that he knows that Pretty Woman doesn’t actually ever happen, at least not at street corners. Not to any of them.

He’s a hooker, and the guys picking him up each week in the cars are never gonna grab his wrist and stop him from leaving at the end of the session; not for anything good at any rate.

Because Claude also isn’t stupid.

But of all his clients, he sorta wishes this one guy would.

He has a really nice car, and an obvious tan line where a wedding ring should be, not that Claude lets himself care about that.

It’s his dime, it doesn’t matter if the guy has a lady waiting back home. Most of his clients probably do, and he sometimes wonders why closeted is the preferred choice for guys like this, because it seems a hell of a lot more complicated and filled with self loathing than just being what they are, happily. They look like they probably have everything, but they still come by and eye up him or Richie or one of the other guys and take them somewhere cheap and fuck them like they can drive what they want out of their bodies by doing this enough. But he’s really not here to judge anyone’s choices, because he fucking _knows_ that sometimes they’re totally, 100% beyond your control in ways you can’t do a damn thing about.

The first time he’d met this guy it had been getting into late fall in Philly. It was a late night, really fucking slow like it sometimes is when there’s something heteronormative like a football game or something going on that night. He’s not sure if there was a game that night or not — it’s been a long time since he’s had the energy to care about something like sports. But on nights where there’s something aggressively normal like that it’s like their clients need to stay home and stay as completely normal as possible, and that’s okay because usually the next few days roll over them like windfall.

Claude had been leaning against Richie for some of his warmth, and Richie had been partway sharing his ancient leather coat with him. They both smelled like cheap sex, but it’s something Claude doesn’t even find himself noticing anymore. It’s like the smell isn’t on him, it’s inside his nose, and he can’t get rid of it no matter how many times he showers or sneezes.

The SUV was black, polished like someone who had a lot of time on their hands, and it’d been driving kind of too fast to be a potential client, so they’d ignored it. Not everyone was there for anything beyond the fact the neighborhood stretched somewhere between ‘A’ and ‘B’ on their GPS.

Richie had said something ridiculous, one of those jokes that would never have been funny except that they were both so exhausted they were close to tears. Richie had said something horrible and Claude had laughed, scolding him in French because he knew Richie wouldn’t understand a damn word of what he was saying, and the car had hit its brakes so hard that even in this neighborhood people stopped and took notice.

The fancy black SUV had come to that abrupt stop on their corner, and he’d thought the john’d been eyeing Richie so he hadn’t even looked up until he’d heard a soft voice calling “Hey. Um. You, with the red hair. Hi?” Claude’d looked up and black eyes had been staring at him really intently and suddenly his heart hurt because that voice sounded so much like _home_ , in a way he’d never thought he’d hear since he ended up in Philadelphia. It’s Quebecois, _proper_ Quebecois, and it sets his pulse to racing in a painfully familiar way.

The guy had started biting his lip, and yeah. His eyes were definitely fixed on Claude as he sorta half waved him over.

Claude knew from a glance this guy had never done this before. He wasn’t as careful as he should have been. His door was unlocked when Claude got close enough to see, and he was looking Claude straight on, like he wasn’t scared of him seeing his whole face like that. He had a nice face, sorta long but well sculpted.

“Hello,” Claude had said, all soft and smooth. It was a trick he’d learned pretty quick. Turns out Americans almost universally seemed to have a thing about his accent, seemed to think anything French was somehow worldlier, something worth that little bit more.

Like lingerie and wine, people would pay that extra cash for Claude because it said “French” on the label.

But this man’s voice, he sounded like Claude’s family, a little bit like home, and he couldn’t decide why he would be bothering with something he already had. When Claude let himself look at him he looked more like Richie’s type, someone who’d like thick muscle and violently short hair and swaggering arrogance. His arms looked strong, but there was something delicate in his face and wrists that made Claude think he’d probably want to be held down by someone who could keep him down, and even before hunger had taken its pound of flesh Claude had inclined more towards the slender edge of the spectrum.

But it was clearly Claude he’d called over, slender and red haired and wiry, and he’d gone because his night had been mostly shit and any cash at all would have been nice. He hated feeling like he wasted a night like this, a night he’d actually rather be with someone in a crappy motel that at least had heating.

The john’s door had been unlocked and he’d leaned across the seat and pushed it open to let Claude in without any negotiations or anything.

Claude’s senses had gone high into overdrive. He wasn’t pretty enough to make a john forget his manners or anything like that, so he had to be careful. No negotiations sounded easy enough, got him out of the cold faster, but they were never a good thing.

He’d pushed himself back from the door, he had to talk a little louder to be heard but they were at a street corner in lower Philly late at night. He didn’t have any illusions that any of the people around didn’t know what he was doing here. Claude still questioned him Quebecois. “Aren’t you gonna ask me how much?”

“Am I supposed to?” The john’s eyes got a little bigger, and there that accent was. He wasn’t just mistaken, or homesick. It was actually there.

“What if I cost more than you can pay?” Claude crossed his arms over his chest. Not like he could fool him into thinking he was suddenly beautiful or anything, but he had his pride regardless. “Or you want something I don’t do? I’m not spending time on someone who can’t make it worth my while.”

The guy’s eyes had gotten a little bit hard at that, but he’d just shook his head. “It doesn’t matter, I can pay it.”

Claude sighed, took another step back. First, never do business with anyone who claimed that; they never could. Second, never go with someone that desperate, it never ended with anything less than some lasting bruises or nasty kinks and usually ended worse than that.

It wasn’t like he was offering to pay anything for _Claude_ specifically, after all. Definitely not.

“Sorry, Buddy.” Claude turned his back on the amazing black SUV and the voice that had sounded like home, and he could see Richie making a face at him like he was insane, but Richie had been the one to give him those rules, and he didn’t need his judgment on something like this.

“Wait,” came the same soft voice, and against his logic Claude had hesitated. “Just a sec, please.”

So Claude had gone back, and the guy had pulled out a mess of bills from his wallet and offered them to Claude before he was even in the car, didn’t count them or anything before handing them over. Amateur. “Please? My name is Danny.”

Of course he’d had to make sure that they were real, that the stack had actually held 20s instead of ones or newspaper, because he wasn’t stupid and he learned from the stories. And he’d had to keep his expression carefully neutral, because it wouldn’t do to let the guy know he’d just bought his whole night from him, if he wanted. If the guy was gonna overpay, that was his problem.

“Claude,” he offered after a moment, tucking the cash away securely and climbing into the car. He could handle him if shit got freaky, probably. He . . . Danny? Danny was pretty small. “It's okay.”

“Where are we going?" Danny, or whatever, he sounded nervous, and Claude might have smirked a little bit when he directed him to a hotel that was good about looking the other way and always taking cash by the hour.

“You pay for the room, I like number 28,” Claude offered as part of the terms. “I don’t do bareback. I can bleed, but that costs extra, and I don’t touch piss or shit.”

Danny looked like he might throw up, but his voice was steady and rich with that accent when he murmured “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Claude had taken him to the hotel that first time, it was close and cheap but not very clean. He had been there before, of course, all the guys had, but Danny had seemed horrified with the conditions the moment he got the door open, and the first word out of his mouth wasn’t a request or demand. It was an apology for the state of the room, stale smoke and bodies in the air.

Claude had just rolled his eyes, if the guy wanted him to believe that he actually thought he was worth more than this then that was his problem.

The whole experience had been sorta surreal. Danny had reached out for him silently, fingers tracing the muscles of his forearm with a ticklish light touch, and Claude had gone to him because it didn’t do to refuse simple requests, even if they seemed odd.

Danny held him, long and slender fingers curled around the sharp bones in Claude’s hips, and he’d kissed him.

He doesn’t like it when the johns kiss him, he knows he’s paid for it and all that but it’s too much . . .

Too much.

So he’ll go as fast as he can, start touching them immediately to perk them up and then they’ll stop kissing him, but with Danny it was different.

Danny kissed like he meant it, like Claude was something beautiful and rare that he couldn’t get enough of. He was slow, taking his time just mapping Claude out, all chapped lips and restored heat as though he’d just recently come in from the cold.

Claude kissed back and it might have been because Danny wanted it but he parted his lips, allowed him in, because he also wanted it. Danny tasted clean, like sincerity and comfortable upper middle class, and he made soft noises that sounded like surprise to Claude’s ears as he moved deeper into the kiss.

Claude’s arms wound tight around Danny’s neck and held him there, thumbs rubbing at the soft spot behind his ears as he let the smaller man melt into him and took his weight. He breathed through his nose; all he could smell was sweet skin and expensive soap. It was delicious, and his eyes fluttered closed as Danny traced small circles onto his hips with his thumbs, tilted his head to allow Claude to lick the uncertainty and nervousness out of his mouth.

They hadn’t even fucked. They’d made it to the bed but Danny never let it get beyond hands skimming over the trembling muscles of his stomach, under his shirt. He was _built_.

Claude had tried. He earned his money, but each time his hands had wandered down, curling at the edge of Danny’s horrible dad jeans, he’d stopped him. Whispered things to him in French and pulled him up to kiss more, and more, until he’d pulled away and offered to drive Claude back.

He’d never offer to give the cash back, he wasn’t stupid, but Danny’s obviously uncomfortable shifting during the whole ride back had made something like responsibility gather in Claude’s gut.

“I could take care of that for you,” he offered, and blowjobs in a car were never the easiest thing but he could deal. He wished Danny had just let him take care of it at the hotel.

Danny turned red, flushed all the way down his neck and probably onto his chest, not like Claude could see though. But the blush mixed with silence was enough to tell him Danny wasn’t apparently into that or whatever. And that’s fine, he’s not gonna psychoanalyze why someone would bother to get a hooker to kiss.

He doesn’t kiss his johns once the job is done, but Danny’s hand fell on his hip before he was able to get out, and he sighed internally and let him lean over the parking brake and kiss him a little before Claude pulled away and got out of the car.

His name probably isn’t even Danny; no one in that nice a car is stupid enough to tell a hooker their real name.

He didn’t expect anything after that first time, it wasn’t his most resounding success, but when Danny’d shown up the next week at the same time, hair slicked back and wet like he’d showered just to come see Claude or something, he took the chance and got into the car with him. Danny was dressed in a suit that looked expensive, if a little questionably tailored, and he fished a bundle of cash out of his glove box and passed it silently to Claude, who counted it while Danny took him to a place that was further away but a lot nicer than the standby.

Some guys were weirdly particular about where they took their hookers. He’d heard about that, too. Richie had this one guy, once, always took him to this weird ass shed in what turned out to be his ex-wife’s back yard, fucked him against a wall so that he could look out the window at the house.

It was kind of weird to be driven to a hotel so far away from convenience and speed, but he tried not to think about it. It had clean sheets and a nice smell and a kitchenette in the suite, almost like a mini house or something. The bedroom was offset from everything else and it was nicer than Claude’s desiccated studio, but he tried not to stare and wonder what a place like this cost per night.

They’d made out on the sofa, Danny making soft sounds that seemed torn between guilt and arousal, his hands roaming Claude’s body almost shyly. But Claude knew what to do about that and just ground his body against him, straddling his lap and kissing him deep and dirty until Danny was too out of breath to protest when he nudged his knees apart, took his dick into his mouth and swallowed him down. It was weird not knowing what Danny really wanted him for, and this simplified everything immeasurably. He took his time with it, though, because Danny was clean and tasted good, and he swallowed afterwards which usually got him a good tip but also because it just seemed appropriate for the circumstances. He licked his lips a little bit, then he rolled his eyes to look up at Danny, not for approval or anything, but just because he sorta wanted to see him. Danny looked utterly enthralled by him.

Danny made him coffee in the kitchenette afterwards, curled up against him on the sofa and carded his fingers through Claude’s hair, kissing his temples. Claude had gone along, pliable as a puppet.

And he tried not to think about it during the subsequent weeks, either, except that it was nice to be in a bed that seemed clean and safe with someone who seemed to enjoy him.

He can’t deny that he enjoys that Danny’s kind to him. That his hands in his hair are never too tight, that he holds himself with rigid restraint, letting Claude set the pace instead of making him choke on his dick like most of the johns do. If Claude wants to take it slower, or maybe just jerk him off, then Danny lets him do that. That sort of control is weird to have but Danny seems totally okay with giving it to him after that first time. If he hadn’t pushed they never would have gotten anywhere, and wasn’t _that_ a fucking weird thought?

Most of the johns just want him fast and dirty, but Danny seems to have this whole reality inside his head where Claude is something special and he wants to take care of him, treat him soft and gentle, and he’s not gonna argue with that because it’s weirdly nice for him, too.

It’s all on Danny’s dollar, so he’s not gonna say anything about it one way or another. It’s not about him, never was. It’s about Danny getting what he wants, and if Danny wants to act like Claude is someone he could come home to every night, someone he has to treat sweet because he cares about him, then that’s what Claude’s gonna let him do. It’s sorta a novelty to have someone who tries to fake something domestic with him. Danny makes him coffee and watches TV while curled up against him, most of the night. It's only later that he makes out with Claude on the sofa before taking him to the bedroom to fuck him until they’re both sore and even Claude is a little bit strung out on pleasure.

Normally Claude doesn’t even try to get turned on, he hates the feeling of it. It doesn’t mean anything to the johns if he is or not, most the time, so it’s easy to just let his body hate what’s happening and go somewhere inside where he doesn’t have to think about what’s happening around him. With Danny it’s totally different, because Danny will kiss him and jerk him off slow and steady. Danny wants to see him be into it so he tries to look like he is. It’s almost embarrassing how _easy_ it is with Danny, both how badly Danny wants him to enjoy it and how simple it is to get into it with him. He doesn’t have to close his eyes until he’s somewhere else; he can just be there with Danny and it’s enough. Danny’s totally what he’d be into under other circumstances, and he’s got calluses on his hands that feel familiar and completely delicious against his dick, and he’s willing to work at Claude to turn him on. He gets this intense look of concentration on his face, like Claude’s cock is some sort of puzzle he wants to solve. It’s kinda hilarious and also awkwardly hot.

Sometimes Danny makes him more coffee in the machine afterwards, and that’s weird but technically Danny is still paying for his whole night so he’ll just drink it with him and maybe watch some more TV or maybe blow him again, and then Danny takes him back.

And sometimes maybe Claude lets himself close his eyes when Danny kisses him goodbye in the car, lets himself really _feel_ the way his hands card through his hair as Danny holds him close.

He knows it’s not healthy at all, but somewhere in those weeks where Danny wanted him so badly to pretend he cared he maybe started to for real, and he can’t help it.

And Richie doesn’t hesitate to remind him he’s an idiot when he turns aside other tricks waiting for Danny’s car to pull up, but whatever. It’s more cash for Richie, and Danny always shows up.

Claude sometimes feels like that’s the only thing he can depend on right now, and that’s probably why he actually gives a shit that Danny wants to kiss him, why he kisses back like he means it instead of kissing like he’s being paid to tolerate it.

So that’s something like a routine for Claude. Danny comes once a week, on Saturday nights, always after midnight, and he hops into his car and they go to the hotel that Danny likes. It’s nice to have a plan, sorta.

He sets his Saturdays mostly free for Danny, too. He remembers the one time he got caught late with a guy who wouldn’t take no for an answer.

He hadn’t had a spare second to wet wipe between jobs and his hair was clean but still a little ruffled, he definitely smelled like sex and someone else’s spunk and Danny had acted like his whole world was falling apart when Claude had gotten into his car.

He’d taken Claude to the same hotel, but he’d taken him to the bedroom right away. It was a deviation from the norm enough that Claude was thrown off, but then Danny and taken him further, into the bathroom.

He stripped him slowly and gently, like _Claude_ was the one needing attention, kissing him softly, hands everywhere, and then he’d guided him into the shower with so much caution Claude couldn’t even manage shock, though he should have. Danny had climbed into the shower with him, bodies slick with water and soap, hot with steam, and then they’d showered together. Danny washing him clean, not like he was disgusted and wanted him unsullied but like he was worried and needed to check him out from head to toe for injury.

Somehow that moment felt more intimate than all the times Danny had come down his throat. He’d showered with him immediately, and then he’d just . . . well, he’d just held him.

He’d curled up on the bed with Claude while they were still wet and held him to his chest. Every time Claude had gotten antsy and tried to initiate something, had tried to make sure Danny was getting his money’s worth, he’d just kiss his hair and stop him.

Danny ended up falling asleep with Claude, and he’d had to wriggle himself free and leave on his own, walking back to his street and hoping Richie was still there to give him a ride home.

He’d tried to return the cash Danny had given him that night, left it on the bedside with Danny’s phone, but the next week he’d just gotten double what he’d come to expect so he didn’t mention it again.

And he understood where it came from. Some guys didn’t like to be reminded that Claude wasn’t theirs. They didn’t like to remember that he had other clients, and usually he was good at making sure they didn’t have to. Some of them looked disgusted, made him wash in the bathroom with cheap soap and hand towels, called him names that didn’t sting so much when they were true, and some of them didn’t even seem to notice or care. No one had ever looked after him like he was something that needed that care. He felt like he’d frightened or worried Danny, like he’d somehow done something that Danny hadn’t signed up for. It was crazy, but it was there.

So after that he starts refusing clients all Saturday evening until Danny shows up, just so he can feel like he’s earning the ridiculous amount Danny is ready to pay him.

And the good thing is Danny pays him enough that he doesn’t have to feel like he’s slacking not taking clients while he waits for him. And Richie gets those Claude refuses, so it works for both of them even though he can feel Richie judging him like the asshole he can sometimes be.

Sometimes Danny was earlier, or later. Sometimes he smelled of close packed bodies and sweat, like he’d just gotten out of a bar (though he was always stone cold sober) and sometimes he looked sorta sad, like he was deeply disappointed in something, but he always came either way.

Claude can recognize his moods, read which of those two Dannys he was gonna get before he even got into the car, and he could plan accordingly. On those nights when he seemed quiet and sad he’d talk to Claude a lot. Not really tell him much, just that his job wasn’t going so well, he’d messed up and disappointed his co-workers, and Claude would listen because if Danny wanted to pay to talk, that was his business.

He liked listening to Danny talk. His voice made him feel like he was home again. Those nights Danny needed him to be the aggressor, to hold him down and kiss the doubt and regret out of him, fuck him slow and almost painful on the motel sheets until Danny released whatever he was carrying inside himself, wrapping his arms and legs around Claude and pulling him in deeper if that was possible. Until Danny came apart under him, crying his name like a prayer, like it meant something.

Those nights he’d be extra careful with Danny, taking his time sucking him off, prepping him really, really well before doing whatever Danny asked him to. But his favorite nights were when Danny showed up smelling like a bar, when he was excited because he and his co-workers had done something great, were celebrating, and for some reason Danny left the bar before closing and came to see Claude instead of taking the celebration home.

Those nights were fun, because Danny was downright _playful_ , teasing and joking and riding high on victory and Claude couldn’t help but soak up the atmosphere, tease back.

Those nights were pretty damn intense, Claude can’t lie and say he doesn’t look forward to those nights, because Danny will talk to him in French, tease and joke with him in French, and when the sex comes it will be like a game, a mutual push and pull where Claude can lose himself in the sense and sensations of _Danny_ and actually forget he’s being paid for every sound and move he makes.

That was the other thing. Most guys, they were easy. They liked to think they were living out their own private porn shoots, and they’d tell Claude what to say and when. They’d want him to moan and compliment them and writhe while they called him a fucking whore, and he would.

Usually while making a grocery list in his head.

The first time he’d tried it with Danny, Danny had completely shut down.

First time he’d tried even mild dirty talk around Danny, he’d had a front row seat to how quick someone could lose an erection. And he wasn’t even saying _half_ of what some of the guys wanted him to say.

Danny had completely lost it, and Claude had to work twice as hard to win him back, had to kiss and hold and make out with him for over an hour while whispering quiet apologies and endearments into his ear before Danny had gotten back into the swing of things.

All from something as simple as asking him if he wanted to fuck his, Claude’s, face with his cock.

So, clearly no dirty talk. Which was really okay. Claude didn’t like needing to do it, didn’t think he was even all that good at it, so fine. It was kind of nice to have a guy whose preferences seemed to dovetail with his own so well.

Of course Danny liked it when he made sounds, but they had to seem sincere, nothing too overblown or porn track-y, so Claude actually had to pay a lot closer attention than normal, had to really let himself go and feel it instead of just reacting like how he’d thought his client would want.

It wasn’t hard. Danny seemed like a sincerely nice guy, he certainly wasn’t at all hard to look at. Sometimes he’d fuck Claude, but usually he’d want to be held down, so Claude had been at least half right the first time he’d met him. He always paid attention to what made Claude lose himself, even for just a second or two, and he learned him.

Danny was muscled, but it was all lean, like he worked for it instead of living at a gym or something. His hair was always really soft in Claude’s hands, and he had this way of smiling that made his whole face sorta light up and glow. Claude had never seen eyes that dark get that bright and brilliant before Danny.

He was funny, and clever, he could make jokes that only worked in French and made Claude laugh twice as hard, and he was as careful as a kitten with him.

He paid attention to Claude, so much that he never had to fake his responses to him. It took Claude a while to get used to that, but he was nothing if not adaptable. He was paid by Danny to do what Danny wanted, and if what Danny wanted was for Claude to relax and _really_ feel him, not just give lip service but really mean it, then Claude could do that.

Each time he found himself crying out when he came, pressing closer to Danny and holding on for dear life, he had to remind himself that was all it was, even though Danny was spread out and pliable beneath him, watching him like he was a gift.

He felt and let go and gave himself to Danny because that’s what Danny paid him for.

Certainly not because he was falling for Danny.

Because he wasn’t that stupid.

He knew that it could be hard; it was why Richie never let himself have regular clients. Apparently he’d had a guy named Jeff, back before Claude had ever moved to Philly, and he learned about the danger of feeling for regular clients the hard way.

He’d seen photos of Jeff, because apparently Richie was secretly a sap. He had spiked bleached hair and he sorta looked like a douche, but if that was what did it for Richie he wasn’t gonna judge him.

Jeff had been some sort of trust fund baby or something; he’d gone to Richie for almost a year before he vanished off the face of the earth. Richie had maybe made the mistake of actually giving a shit about this Jeff guy, but he didn’t give him an explanation or anything, he’d just not come one night, then the next, until he just never came back at all.

Richie still looked hurt about that, even though he pretended he wasn’t. Hookers didn’t get to have a say in what their clients did with their lives, any more than they got to have a say in their own lives.

He could see Richie looking at him all pitying some days, but he ignored him. Claude kept doing it because Danny paid obscenely well, because it was nice to have a client whose wants meshed so well with his, and because it was easy. It had nothing at all to do with hope or sentimentality and everything to do with convenience.

It was _Danny_ , and nothing hurt.

So one night, when Danny didn’t show up, Claude knew better than to say anything to Richie. He’d been passing on clients all night, but it was close to morning and Danny still wasn’t there, and Danny had never been this late on him before.

Richie had been out a couple times already, but Claude had hung around waiting, except Danny never showed up. And then he couldn’t take a different client because if Danny showed up he didn’t trust Richie to cover for him.

It ended up where he didn’t make anything at all, and it blew because his rent was due soon and he really, really needed that money. But for whatever reason he just kept waiting until it was too late to make even a portion of the cash back.

Clearly Claude was an idiot, and Richie reminded him of that plenty of times as he gave him a lift home in his ancient piece of shit car.

Claude had to take clients he would have preferred to pass on for the rest of the week to make up for Saturday. He has bruises on his wrists, a cut on his lip from a guy who liked to see him bleed while he sucked him, marks he normally never has on his body by the time Saturday rolls around again. He’s a tough guy, he can take it, but he doesn’t want it and it always makes him feel worse, in ways even injuries on the ice couldn’t. And he makes up his mind that he isn’t gonna wait on Danny this time. Danny had obviously found someone, maybe someone at one of those bars him and his coworkers went to, and he didn’t need to get his rocks off with Claude anymore. Maybe he’d gotten too expensive. Claude couldn’t imagine a lot of jobs where dropping the sort of cash he did every Saturday was sustainable for long.

So the first car that pulls up, he negotiates and leaves with them. Richie gives him a thumbs up and he rolls his eyes. The guy turns out to be pretty easy and Claude is back in time for their version of rush hour, picking up another client and not letting himself wonder if maybe he should hold off for another hour, because Danny always seems to avoid the rush.

That guy was really detailed with what he wanted, and he doesn’t get back until it’s time to head home, and he resigns himself to the idea that this is gonna be Saturday from now on. Danny was a nice distraction, but he seems to be gone now, and that’s okay.

Sunday, though, Jordan calls him over to apologize for trying to poach his client, and Claude just looks confused.

“Your regular, Danny. He came by while you were gone. He looked sorta bothered that you were gone, so I offered to go with him. I wanted to tell you myself, before someone who didn’t get it spilled. I wasn’t poaching on you, Claude. He just left, though.”

Claude’s stomach is knotting and unknotting so fast he’s getting sick. “He came by?”

“Yeah, but once he saw you weren’t here he checked up on you and left. Sorry, man. I didn’t know how long you’d be gone or anything.”

“No, it’s fine.” It’s not Jordy’s job to know his schedule or anything.

The next week is a little better than the previous. He gets a few fresh bruises on his hips from guys who like to hold him too hard, but there’s nothing weird that makes him bleed or anything this time around.

He doesn’t have money to make up, so he can afford to be picky again.

But he’s still not sure if he can afford to wait for Danny on Saturday. It’s a tossup. The extra cash he got from Danny was a blessing, but it’s also almost out. Is it better to get some extra from someone else in case, or is it worth risking it and holding out, hoping that Danny’ll come?

Richie tells him what he’d do, but Richie’s kind of an asshole so Claude decides to wait at least until Danny’s regular time on Saturday before he passes him off as a lost cause for another week.

He doesn’t really owe it to him or anything. Doesn’t owe him anything at all, but the idea of going off for another week makes him a little strange inside, makes him feel _something_ at any rate, so he settles himself into Richie’s side to wait out at least the next few hours, in all too rare optimism.


	2. Chapter 2

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Claude’s been leaning against Richie and Jordy in alternation, sharing heat and waiting, for most of the night. Danny’s not gonna come, and he’s slowly resigning himself to accepting the next offer that comes up when something about the engine of the car down the block makes him raise his head, squint a little bit since he’s not seeing so great lately. When he sees the black SUV driving up right on schedule he has to actually restrain himself from racing over, from grinning like an idiot where Richie can see it just because Danny came _back_.

He tries to pretend he wasn’t watching for it, because he doesn’t want to look like he’s been waiting for this, but he knows Danny’s voice without seeing him when he calls Claude’s name softly.

“Excuse me,” he calls, because this seems to be a thing between them here on the street. “Claude? Do you have a second to talk?”

He’s really glad Richie doesn’t speak French, or he’d have some sort of comment about how clearly it’s not talking Danny wants him for, reminding Claude exactly what he is.

Because Richie can be a dick sometimes, for all he does it for good intentions.

“Wait a second,” he calls back. It’s stupid and cocky to be giving orders to Danny but he may be a hooker, but he’s not easy.

And he stands there pretending to talk to Richie while Richie’s face gets more and more disbelieving before Claude decides he’s ready to talk to Danny.

He’s just a hooker, he reminds himself. He’s not Danny’s expensive kept mistress or anything, he doesn’t have any bargaining chips to make Danny wait on him, but Danny waits none-the-less.

“Claude?” he calls again, and he sounds like Claude had better respond.

“Yeah?” He turns around, reaching to push his hair back but then remembering he’d cut it. He’d been keeping his hair longer for Danny, that’s how much he’s done for this one particular john, but he’d had it cut on Wednesday, just in case.

Danny’s barely lit inside the car, but then he leans over, pushes the door open and the car light hits across his face. He’s scuffed up, a cut tracing the upper curve of his cheekbone and a black eye the accompaniment to that, and Claude steps closer because he’s curious.

“Are you . . . busy?” Danny looks like he’s hating that word inside his mouth. He’s never had to ask before, but it’s been a few weeks and he seems to realize that might have changed things.

“Nope” Claude says softly, his annoyance catching in his throat and evaporating. He slides into Danny’s leather interior without protest, turning to look at him. He’s not sure if he should say anything about the injuries or not. Danny’s never been a rough lover, but maybe that’s just with Claude.

“Those.” He looks out the window, then back at Claude. “They’re your friends, right?”

Claude looks out the window, sees Richie and Jordy standing there, huddled up. “Um, yeah. We’re all . . . in the same boat.”

“They’re not your . . .” Danny looks miserable, is looking at Claude with those injuries on his face and in his eyes and he’s forced to laugh because he knows what Danny’s asking. It’s _ridiculous_ , both that Danny’s asking and that the idea has crossed his mind. Claude’s a hooker, but Danny getting jealous of _Richie_ is ridiculous beyond all measure.

“ _God_ no. We look out for each other, we’re like siblings, but not. No. _No_.” He shakes his head once to emphasize it, letting his laugh taper off. The look on Danny’s face is so relieved it’s unreal.

“I missed you.” Then Danny leans across the parking brake to kiss him and he ends up stealing all of Claude’s breath away from him so he can’t even respond properly.

“I missed this, _you_ ,” Danny repeats, resting his forehead against Claude’s when he pulls away. “I’m sorry, I hope you aren’t angry with me.”

There’s something wrong with the world not only when his john apologizes to him but when his second language is easier to deal with, but maybe it’s because French feels too much like reality between them. A response has to wait until Claude can finally catch his breath again. “I’m not . . . what happened to you?”

Danny touches his own cheek lightly and laughs, shaking the question away. “Call it a rough day at work.”

Claude stares. He’s not sure what sort of job involves coworkers punching each other, but he never imagined Danny having it.

Danny laughs again, putting the car into gear and driving off. “Your money’s in the glove box.”

Claude doesn’t reach to get it. “Are you all right? Should we . . . be careful?”

The car is quiet for a little while, and then Danny shakes his head. “I don’t hurt easy, or for long. I have sons, you know. Three of them. You get used to not making a big deal of little bumps and bruises, so that they won’t treat them too seriously either.”

No, he didn’t know that. They’ve been fucking for months now, regular as clockwork, but Danny’s never told him anything about his life.

“Oh,” he says quietly, not sure how to process this. It’s one thing to see the tan line around Danny’s ring finger; it’s another to hear the world ‘sons’.

And then he kicks himself, because it doesn’t matter. Most his clients are probably family men. It’s not on his conscience what they choose to do when they’re not at home. It’s just weird to hear Danny saying it. He didn’t want to think about that with Danny.

“My oldest, he looks just like my ex-wife, but he gets hurt like I do. He’ll never say it hurts, even when it really does. My youngest, his name’s Cameron, he bawls over the littlest thing, but he’s still young. Kids do that, when they’re young.”

Claude doesn’t know how to process any of this. Danny’s telling him more in these few sentences than all his clients combined have ever told him. He’s scared. Danny doesn’t seem like the sort to think he needs to take care of him now that he’s spilled this much, but he can’t afford to risk it. A lot of hookers have ended up dead for learning a lot less than this about their johns. Especially their johns with money.

“Oh,” he says finally, after a few seconds. He doesn’t want to admit that it’s a big deal to be told this. Maybe if he doesn’t admit it then Danny won’t realize that spilling his private life to a hooker might be a bad idea.

It seems to work. Danny doesn’t seem freaked out by anything he’s said as he leads Claude to their room. Prepaid, like always. Room 28, like always. Clean and comfortable and better than home to Claude, who’s been exhausted with the worry he might never see this place again. Not with Danny.

Not like always is the dinner sitting out in the kitchenette, making the whole place smell like a home.

“I thought you might be hungry?” Danny asks sheepishly as Claude just stares.

No one has ever fed him before, and he is hungry for something that doesn’t come in a paper bag. This looks like catering, nice plates and clean utensils, and Claude falls to his knees without needing to be prompted, reaching for Danny’s belt. He knows what gestures of kindness mean, what repayment they demand. The same payment they always demand.

But Danny isn’t everyone. He pulls away from him, eyes getting big. “Claude? What . . . what are you _doing?_ ”

Claude leans back, looks at him and licks his lips. “I’m thanking you,” he says quietly, like Danny should know that.

He looks grossed out by the idea. “Please don’t. Or, not like that.”

Claude sighs, pushing his hand through his hair. “Danny, please. If you want a game I can play, but you have to tell me what you want. If you don’t want me to be grateful what do you want?”

“It’s not a game,” Danny says quietly, fixing his pants and drawing Claude to his feet. “I just want to make sure you’re not hungry. You look thinner than usual.”

Claude watches him, and he knows his face looks like suspicion because Danny shakes his head.

Danny’s a touch shorter than him, so he has to raise himself up to kiss him. His lips feel good against Claude’s, cool and rough. He’s missed this. “Let’s eat dinner. Maybe next week we can go somewhere, do you like Italian?”

This time Claude is the one who pulls away, face unsure.

“No on Italian?” he asks, like he doesn’t realize how absurd it is to be asking the hooker he’s been frequenting for months out on what sounds like a date. Claude’s not some sort of escort, he’s a corner prostitute. He doesn’t have to be wined and dined, he just has to be paid.

“Maybe you’re busy.” Danny looks completely crushed by this, a flush covering his cheeks. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t . . .”

“I wouldn’t be,” Claude admits. “You. You’ve been giving me enough to buy my whole night from me for months.”

Danny seems to accept this, but his face is still silent and sad, watching Claude like he wants something he can’t put proper words to.

“And I’d like that.” It doesn’t even sound like his own voice when he says it, but Danny’s face gets positively radiant when he does so he’ll take credit for it anyway.

Danny kisses him, and Claude lets himself relax into it, lets himself open up and really enjoy it because he’s pretty sure he’s dreaming or whatever, but it’s a great dream as far as dreams go.

They eat the dinner Danny brought for them, and it’s really, really delicious. Claude almost can’t handle the richness, the variety, after his usual diet. Danny kisses him several times as they eat, touches his hand, palm cradling the back of his neck like he needs to touch. The wine is a bad idea, but it’s also the best he’s ever tasted, and when they’re done Danny takes him back to the bedroom, puts his phone on the nightstand and strips out of his clothing like he’s desperate to be touched. He pulls Claude down onto himself, kissing him deep and sure. He tastes like delicious addiction.

Claude holds him down and rims him, slow and thorough, it’s something they’ve never done before but it’s something Claude — or maybe the alcohol, but mostly Claude — wants. He lets himself do what he wants to do with Danny, and the other man seems completely on board with Claude’s tongue flickering against his vulnerabilities, working him open in a way that’s so filled with sensation it’s almost painful.

It’s slower than Claude’s used to, than he’s comfortable with, but each time he tries to take it faster, harder, Danny makes him slow down. And ultimately this is about Danny, not him, so he does as he asks even though it makes him feel so much he aches.

And somewhere in there, maybe when Danny is kissing him like he needs him to breathe, or when he’s wrapping his legs and pulling Claude in like he can’t get enough of him, Claude forgets this is all for Danny, bought and paid for, and he lets himself go, lets himself feel it more intensely than he’s ever let himself. He lets himself be just a little selfish and Danny gives him everything in return.

It’s surreal how badly Danny seems to want Claude to want him, but it’s there in his eyes, in his mouth when he kisses him, and so Claude lets himself whisper things to him that he’s never said before, murmuring into his sweat soaked hair and Danny shivers harder than orgasm and whispers things back, holding Claude tight as a treasure.

It’s not until Danny’s asleep on his chest, head tucked under his chin while Claude contemplates how to leave gracefully, that Claude realizes he hasn’t let Danny pay for any of this, because he never took Danny’s money out of his glove box.

And he doesn’t sleep on the job, but this isn’t exactly a job anymore, so after a few moments of gut churning panic he lets himself fall asleep with Danny passed out on top of him.

The phone ringing the next morning startles him, wakes him, and he doesn’t think twice about answering it because he’s happy, and Danny’s warm, and he just wants to sleep some more, so he needs his phone to shut up.

“Daniel, you were supposed to pick up the boys two hours ago, what is going on with you?”

Danny has a phone older than what he can afford, and Claude has a cheap phone because that’s all he’s got, and they meet somewhere in the middle by being very similar in most respects.

Claude blinks at the phone, then realizes it isn’t his at about the same time Danny reaches over him and calmly plucks it out of his hands. His reflexes are sorta astonishing.

“Sylvie, I’m sorry. I must have overslept; I’ll be there in an hour or less. Tell them I’m very sorry.” He’s tugging on his clothes one handed as Claude sits up, tries to register where exactly he is, how he got here.

Why there are approximately a million text messages from Richie on his own phone, all expressing varying levels of panic that he’d been serial killed during the night.

Oh, fuck. He’d spent the night in bed with Danny.

He’s frantically typing, trying to assure Richie he’s fine but he’s gonna need a ride to get back home, when Danny catches the wrist of the hand holding his phone and pulls him up to his feet without a word.

Claude flinches, anticipating the blows that’re sure to rain down for messing up Danny’s schedule.

Instead Danny’s free hand tangles in his hair and he pulls him in for a deep kiss, morning breath and all. Claude’s so shocked and relieved he wraps around him instantly, and without thought. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he murmurs into Claude’s lips. “I shouldn’t leave you like this.”

 _I’m a whore, of course you leave me like this_ , Claude doesn’t say.

“I’ll drop you off at your place, but we have to go get my boys first, okay?”

And . . . _what_?

“ _What_?”

“I can’t just leave you here, I have no idea where you live. But we have to get the boys before I can take you home.” Danny looks rueful, but not ashamed. “Not how I pictured you meeting my family, but you have to roll with the line changes.”

“Danny,” he says softly, and the man should _know_ this. He's clearly not stupid. “Danny, you can’t take me to meet your family. I’m a hooker.”

Danny stares at him, his eyes getting big even as his face drops. “I. I know. And I’d never tell you that you can’t be, but I’m not ashamed of you. And I . . . I mean, I’ll keep paying you, of course, I get that it’s your job and all, I just want you to meet my boys, they’d love you . . .”

Claude swore to himself he would never say this. Never.

Because he needs the money. Because he can’t afford to let himself get caught up in something like this, something where emotion is substituting for logic and feeling for profit, but somehow he’s here in this room with Danny anyway.

He pulls the smaller man closer, kisses him gently, and whispers “I don’t want your money,” into his lips.

He can’t afford to say that, but he does anyway.

And then Danny very nearly doesn’t get to his kids, because he won’t stop kissing Claude, won’t let his hands stray away from him as they trace gratitude into the lean muscles of his belly.

In the car Claude hunches down low in the seat, like he does for the clients who don’t wanna be seen with him, but Danny grabs his shoulder and hauls him up before they even get there. They drive out of Philly and into the suburbs and Claude can’t believe he’s here, that he’s seeing these neighborhoods with dogs and lawns and trees and stuff. He’s always wanted those things but he’s never been lucky enough to have them. Then Danny pulls up to a house, the SUV stops and he jumps out and Claude wishes he could die because Danny’s ex-wife lives in a really, really lovely neighborhood.

Then Danny opens his door and hauls him out of the car and towards the house, not letting him hide away. Claude is in his threadbare t-shirt, worn through in places, and in torn, oversized jeans.

This is the sort of neighborhood he wanted to live in as a kid. It’s clean, manicured, and immaculate. It looks like it has no secrets to hide — though life as he’s lived it has taught him that it clearly has more than you’d expect — and it’s beautiful. It’s the polar opposite of the dingy, worn down and less than safe neighborhood where his apartment is located.

He doesn’t belong here, he’s an outsider who’s probably destroyed his fair share of these homes, or ones just like them somewhere else.

But Danny drags him to the door and knocks. The door opens soundlessly, Claude is face to face with the ex-wife of the man who up until last night was paying him for sex, and all he can do is blink at her immaculate dark hair and wardrobe as Danny grips his wrist with bruising pain and introduces him to Sylvie, offering only “This is Claude, we were out last night and we crashed at his place.”

He’s probably reading too much into it, that Danny considers a hotel room ‘his place’. He flinches regardless.

He knows he doesn’t look as good as her, overgrown ginger curls he can do nothing to tame and body too close to the line of scrawny, and he’s just relieved that she seems to take Danny at his word because he couldn’t live with himself if she somehow _knew_ what he was. If she was judging Danny for fucking someone like him.

The three boys come thundering out of nowhere like a herd of elephants, feet slamming over the gorgeous hardwood floors as they skitter to a stop in front of them, watching the three adults with expressions they have to have learned from each other. Danny’s kids look just like him, he can’t get where Danny told him the oldest looks like his wife because they are all tiny versions of him, and then the youngest (who has Claude’s curly, pale hair) looks up at him and asks, very innocently, how he knows their dad.

“B’cause Dad doesn’t have friends, except f’r guys on the team, and you don’t _look_ like a hockey player. Are you?”

He keeps his face very, very still, though he can feel Danny tensing next to him. He smiles, quick and sincere and offers only “I met your dad a few months ago, when we were both sorta out and about, y’know?” And while he smiles and explains his heart falls, shatters, destroys itself.

 _Danny_.

This guy really is named Danny, which he’d still suspected was a fake name up until that moment, and now he knows that it’s for real, and little bits of everything start to slot together. All he can do is shake a little and try not to stare.

He’s Daniel Briere.

The guy they’d gotten from Buffalo not so long ago. The guy whose arena happened to be a pretty straight course away from where Claude’s been surviving.

The guy whose orgasm face Claude knows better than any in the world.

And the guy who sure as fuck is too good for a washed up junior hockey player turned streetside trick like Claude.

Danny is paid to play for Philadelphia.

Claude is a pay to play downtown.

Claude plasters that smile on his face, the one that he wears when someone asks him what his limits are, and he keeps it there the whole time. This, right here. This is his limit, it’s how far he can be pushed before it hurts too much to endure.

That smile is there where Danny asks him where he can drop him off, with the boys all buckled in behind them. It’s there when he jumps out in front of Richie’s building, which is a little nicer than his, and it’s there when he shoves past Richie, walks straight to his liquor drawer and pulls out the first thing he sees. Richie yells at him for not getting his money from Danny while he drinks whisky that peels the skin out of his throat, and none of it matters.

It’s gonna make giving blowjobs a bitch tonight, but he intends to be so dunk he won’t care.

His clients that night are rougher than usual, they push and bruise and take, and he lets them. It’s like they see him and just know they can do whatever they want to him and he won’t care.

He doesn’t.

He’s never gonna see Danny again, or more accurately he’s never gonna _let himself_ see Danny again, not even the whisky takes the burn off that realization. And he didn’t even get his money from the last time, so he’s put himself in a worse place than he was when Danny disappeared; now he knows he can never make all of that back.

He spends the week letting himself get pushed around. Split lip (again), bruises up and down his arms, pressed deep into his thighs. Bite marks on his shoulders, scratches on his hips, all deep in his pale skin.

It gets to where his johns push and shove him worse, angry that he’s suddenly showing all these marks on himself when he never did before. They don’t want to see him marked up from someone else, they want him to look clean and untouched.

Like they’re pissed at him for being the whore they all know he is. So by Wednesday he only has one caliber of client but he doesn’t care about that, either.

Claude doesn’t have the energy to judge any of them, though. He needs all of that energy to remain upright between bouts of being pressed forcefully into a bed, a wall, a garbage can.

Richie’s mad, _furious_ at him both for letting himself fall for a john and for not watching out for himself like he used to because of it. He warned him, he fucking _warned_ him, he reminds him of that time and time again, all throughout those parts of the night where Claude is shaking and huddled against his greater mass for heat and security. And Claude can’t even argue, because he _did_. Richie didn’t get his happy fucking Disney ending, and neither did Claude, because reality just does not jive that way for them.

Regular didn’t mean anything except he was good at being the sort of lay Daniel Briere wanted. It certainly didn’t mean Danny felt anything for him.

“You don’t get your shit together, you’re gonna get yourself hurt, or worse,” Richie warns him about two weeks later, which is as close as Richie gets to threatening to turn him out on his own. His arm is around Claude’s shoulders, holding him in close to his body heat and leather jacket while Claude trembles out of control.

So he does.

He doesn’t feel any better, but he learns to hide it. Learns to put on that damn smile and protect himself when he has to and groan and thrash when he’s asked to, and to never, ever be available on a Saturday night. It’s not so hard. It’s sorta like going back to what he was before Danny showed up, even though he knows inside himself he’ll never really go back to that.

Danny’ll stop coming by. He has to. If he hasn’t already.

Except Jordy’s always bitchy at him on Sundays, mad because Danny came by and he wouldn’t even look twice at him. Even though Jordy’s also a ginger, and much hotter than Claude.

“He just looks around for you and then drives off. I swear to God, he won’t touch any of the rest of us.” Jordy looks completely pissed, furious like it’s somehow Claude’s fault that Danny is a sadist, or insane, or just really fucking picky. “You gotta do something, Claude. I don't get what exactly it is you did for him, but you gotta spill it so maybe one of us can try at least. Was it a weird kink or something?”

Weird, yeah. But apparently not something any one else could do.

"You said he paid way above the going rate, and that helped. We used that."

And Danny had. Way above. But not enough to make up for the risks, not enough to make up for the bruises on Claude’s hips and the remains of what once had been hope inside his chest. Even though Claude knows he brought all of that down on himself. He wears his heart on his fucking sleeve, out where he can least afford to show it. He has to learn how to guard it better. Until then he can’t talk to Danny.

So Claude just keeps avoiding him, and Jordy doesn’t even keep it restricted to Sundays because apparently Danny’s coming by two or three times some weeks; it cycles week after week until it’s near four months later and Claude is ready to kill someone if Jordy or Richie yells at him one more time. He deserves it, he knows that, but he can only take the blame for his own stupidity. Danny keeps coming by with no encouragement, and he can’t take the blame for Danny being an idiot. It’s not like he did something special to Danny to make him keep it going like this.

So finally, it’s in the dead of full winter and his life sucks anyway. His one light coat isn’t heavy enough, even Richie and his leather jacket aren’t enough because they all take to being gone as often as physically possible when winter is biting through them like this. He’s cold to the point where he’s beyond pain, the snow is making the city look almost fresh except for right here, where traffic has made it dirty and gross. It’s Saturday and getting close to Danny’s time and he has nowhere to be. He might as well just let it suck even more and wait to see if Danny’s going to come driving up, because apparently Claude isn’t the only one in this . . . whatever it is . . . who’s completely, batshit insane.

So Claude hangs out, hands in the pockets of his too light coat, and sure enough. It’s a little after midnight, and there are headlights on a night when only the desperate come out. The wipers are beating against the oncoming snow, but that’s Danny’s car. He’d know it anywhere, the chip in the front headlight and the sound of the engine and all of that. He knows it too well, for all that he hasn’t seen it in what feels like a very painful lifetime.

When it comes to a stop Claude wants to run, his body tenses in a whole body shiver that’s almost a seizure with the need to just turn tail and duck into the alleyway, but instead he starts to walk closer slowly, kicking at the snow and hating his life. His sneakers are soaked through and squeaking, his jeans have wicked wet up to the knees, and his eyelashes are glittering with half melted snowflakes.

He’s so intent on hating his life he doesn’t notice when the engine shuts off, but the lights stay on. The lights stay on so it might as well be running as he makes his miserable way towards the one place he swore he’d never go, because he’s cold and Richie’s gone and as terrified as he is of Danny, what Danny makes him feel, it’s still better than pulling a Little Matchstick Girl in the snow.

He doesn’t notice the car turning off but he does notice when Danny’s hands fist in his coat, when he’s spun bodily because he’s taller but Danny has a fair bit of muscle on him. He notices when Danny pins him against the side of his car and kisses him so hard it’s painful because it’d be sorta hard to miss that, even though his lips are numb.

“ _Claude_ , Jesus,” he breathes against his neck, pressing so close he can feel that Danny’s the one trembling, even though he’s warm from the heater. His hands keep curling and uncurling around his hips, fingers pressing into prominent bone. “Jesus, where did you _go_? The other guys said you were still around, but it’s been _months_ , Claude. I was so fucking worried.”

Claude leans back away from him, needing space like he never has before with Danny. He’s trapped against his car and he needs to . . . not be. Even the first time, he didn’t need this space.

Back then. The first time Danny bought him.

“Claude?” Danny asks. Because he’s not stupid, he can see that something’s wrong but he’s not sure what. His eyes are blacker than usual, scanning his face intently, focusing on every little part of him from his freckles to his chapped lips. His fingers trace the high curve of his cheekbones, pushing back into Claude’s curls and cradling his head. “Were you hurt? Did something happen? Is that why . . .”

Something sure as hell happened, but now that he’s faced with Danny like this all the things he wanted to say — about Danny being too good, and Claude being too cheap despite his cost — they all go out the window. All he wants to do is let Danny kiss him, let himself kiss back, over and over until it’s not even winter anymore.

Claude just looks at him for a few seconds, steels himself and asks, “What do you want, tonight?” in a voice that’s bordering on bored.

Danny stares at him, leans forward to kiss him again. His nose is really cold as it bumps Claude’s cheek, his lips are getting there, but Danny keeps kissing him against the side of his car for a while before he takes Claude’s hands between his own to warm them.

“The boys are at Sylvie’s,” he says quietly. “I just. We had a game against Washington, their ice. I just got back, I didn’t think you’d be here, but I had to check. I thought someone would _tell_ you. I know I haven’t been able to come by every Saturday, work’s been really hectic lately, but I’ve even come on off days just to see you, but you’re never _here_.”

Claude knows all of that. He knows because Jordy has told him. Loudly. And repeatedly.

“I was so worried,” Danny admits, resting his forehead against Claude’s. “I’ve missed you so badly.” Their noses bump a little bit as he slots their lips together silently, kissing Claude deep and warm like he’s terrified he’s forgotten how he tastes.

“They did tell me,” he says when he pulls away, because he can’t let Danny keep kissing him like that or he’ll forget everything. “So do you want to make out here, or what?”

Danny stares at him. “I want to take you home with me, Claude. Didn’t you hear what I said?”

He did, but it’s not like he believed it. “Risky, taking a hooker to your house.”

Danny steps back then like he’s been hit. Claude’s watched him get hit on the ice, not that Danny knows that. He’s never seen him have that much _expression_ on his face. “Jesus, Claude. Who’s been saying shit like that to you?”

“No one needs to, it’s my job. I know what my job is. I suck and fuck for money, Danny. Yours, and other people’s.”

Danny looks so stupidly horrified that Claude wants to laugh, but it’d be a bitter laugh so he doesn’t. Like he didn’t start off paying crazy amounts to have sex with Claude. Like he didn’t _keep_ paying him for it.

“I.” Danny doesn’t know what to say, that’s obvious. “Claude, I don’t understand.”

It’s pretty clear that he doesn’t, but Claude isn’t so far gone that he’ll say that. He hopes he’ll never be that far gone, for all that his life is shit right now.

Danny could punch him. Punch him and drive off, and Claude wouldn’t blame him because he can’t seem to keep his mouth from saying everything possible to drive him away. Danny’s hands fist in his t-shirt for a second, and he thinks he might actually get punched, but then Danny drags him into his car because he realizes how badly Claude is shivering, cranks up the heat and starts driving.

“It’s. Glove box,” Danny says tensely, and Claude reaches in to find almost four times as much as he normally gets for a few hours. Even a few hours with Danny.

It’s a whole fucking lot of money, like Danny has been collecting it up every week for when he sees him, then never taking it out when he doesn’t. It’s all there, and Claude doesn’t want it but Danny thinks he has to pay it, and he has no idea how he ever let it get to this point.

He lets the money fan out across his lap, and he hates his life.

Because all he has to do is look sideways at Danny’s profile to be pretty sure he’s completely, stupidly in love with him. With his stupid crooked teeth and his _nose_ , and with the way he always purses his lips after they kiss, like he wants to hold it inside himself for a moment longer. And he hates that he’s in a world where Danny feels like he has to buy the same from him.

“I told you that you wouldn’t have to, for me. Anymore.”

“I would die without a penny to my name if that’s what it took to have even an hour or two of your time,” he whispers. “I mean that.”

Claude doesn’t want to be the person Danny pays for. He really fucking doesn’t, even though Danny already has in the past. Danny falls completely silent and Claude remembers that he told Danny he didn’t have to pay anymore, but Danny offered and he really, really needs it.

But it would suck if Danny kept his word and Claude didn’t, he doesn’t need that over his head.

He stares at the cash, knowing Richie is gonna kill him, but knowing with equal certainty that he doesn’t care.

So he folds all of it up together and goes to put it back into his glove box.

“No.” Danny puts his hand on his wrist, fingers against his pulse and stops him. “It’s yours. Take it. You gotta know by now that I'll pay for you for the rest of my natural life if it means I get this time with you.”

“There’s not enough hours in a day to . . .”

“I wish to hell I didn’t have to buy you, that you’d let me love you without it being some sort of transaction, but you _won’t_. I understand about pride, Claude. I’m a hockey player, I _get_ it. So just take it. Take it and let me at least pretend for a few hours you want me as badly as I want you, okay?”

Claude doesn’t know what to say. His hands clench and unclench in his lap, and he stares down at them while the car is dead silent. Then, finally, he does know what to say.

“ _PRIDE_?” he screams, slamming the glove box closed so hard he breaks the latch and it flops forward onto his lap again, spilling paperwork and old CDs and cash all over him like a fucking metaphor. “You wanna talk to me about fucking _pride_? You’re a goddamned _hockey player_ , Danny. Cameron spilled the beans and I’m not so stupid I’d keep believing you’re a business man or whatever. I’m a hooker, and you knew that from the beginning! There’s no goddamned _pride_ in that, it’s not something anyone ever wakes up and decides they _want_ to do. Carson’s not gonna tell you he wants to be just like me, and you’re not gonna pack him up with a smile and a bagged sandwich to let him chase his dream, so shut the fuck up about _pride_! If you had a brain in your fucking head you’d realize I’m stupidly in love with you, you idiot, but I’m a hooker and no one in their _right mind_ dates their hooker!”

Danny’s fists creak against the steering wheel as he grips it so hard his knuckles turn white, but then he turns into a driveway and slams on his brakes just before going straight through the garage door. And, wow. This is actually Danny’s house. He really took him there.

“Can we just . . .” Danny stops, his voice is shaking so hard that Claude can’t tell if he’s furious or close to tears. “Can we just go inside and have dinner?”

“Yes,” Claude agrees, his voice carefully controlled. He may be a hooker, but he’s gonna do a good job of it, angry or not. Maybe there’s an element of pride in that, but he doesn’t think so. “We can.”

“Stop doing that.”

He rolls his eyes, leans back in his seat. “Doing what?”

“Acting like I’m asking you for the most inconvenient shit in the world, and you’re just humoring me. You never did that, before. You used to _like_ . . .”

“You _paid_ me to like . . .”

“Bullshit, there’s a _difference_. I know the difference between being what you think someone wants and genuine desire, Claude, the guys might not have to pay the puck bunnies but we all know how to read intentions. I’m not stupid; it had nothing to do with the cash because you didn’t even take it.” He takes a deep breath, but then all he does is throw his door open and stalk out, so Claude follows him. And he’s pretty sure it’s because Danny wants him to, not because he’s being paid to.

There’s a framed All Star jersey on the wall, two dogs shaking their butts at Danny as he drops his keys on the hall table, shoes on the floor and clutter on the table and this is Danny’s house. It’s where he lives, where he was married and where he was divorced, where he raised and is raising his kids and he’s asking Claude to follow him into it like he’s scared Claude won’t want to. He stands there without anything to say, but Danny’s eyes just get bigger, brim with what looks like hope. Claude steps closer, waiting for Danny to look around his house and realize how wrong Claude looks inside it. Instead he looks over Claude standing there in his doorway, and his face lights up with how much he loves the sight of him inside his house.

“Claude?” Danny asks, watching as he sets the cash on the table next to the hockey stuff Danny left out. Clearly he hadn’t been planning on keeping up the charade of business man for much longer. Or he forgot.

Either way.

All he can do is remember how Danny’s voice sounded when he admitted that he wished Claude wouldn’t make it a transaction. Like the biggest vulnerability in the world, admitting that he wants Claude to be his all the time.

“I didn’t . . . I didn’t want a hooker that night, Claude. Any of those nights. I heard your voice and I knew you were like me, only something happened to you that didn’t happen to me, some support structure fell out and . . . we’re _both_ so far away from home. But then it happened once and I couldn’t stay away from _you_ , not the sex but _you_ , and it’s not healthy because I’m a hockey player. I’m gonna get caught, I’m not that devious, but I _just can’t stay away_. I wanted _you_ , I wanted to help you, but I knew what you were and I thought the only way I could help you was on your terms.” He’s getting close to him again, and the anger is still there but dissipating rapidly, like he’s letting it go. “And that’s a payoff I’ll make if I have to. I’ll pay for you the rest of my life if that means I get to have those moments with you.”

Claude pushes him a little. He doesn’t feel like being restrained right now, it feels too scary. “You’re an asshole. I’m not doing this because I want to, Danny. If I had other options I would, this isn’t who I _am_. Fuck you, fuck you for thinking . . . for thinking that. I hate fucking strangers almost as bad as I hate taking money from the one person I don’t want to, but this is all I have. I tried to get out but I don’t have education, and I can’t play hockey anymore, and I can’t go home.”

Danny scrubs through his hair, paces. “This isn’t coming out right. I . . . I’m an idiot, I say shit that I don’t mean, that’s unfair to you because I know you don’t want to do it. I just meant that . . . that I feel like I know you, that you’re one of those guys like me, who’s gonna carry an element of professional pride with you no matter what you do because you’re a _proud person_ , and I didn’t want you to think I was taking advantage. You'd never let me pity you.”

“I . . .” But Danny’s right, in a fumbling, horrible way. Claude hates what he does, but he’s not going to be bad at it, either. Because he can’t afford to be, but also because he just _can’t_ , can’t be bad at anything. “I have nothing I can give you.”

“You can stay here with me.” Danny offers it like it’s the most normal thing in the world to be offering to let the guy he picked up on a street corner move in with him, like it’d be totally normal and not at all sketchy or weird. “As long as you need to. Forever. If you let me help you I will. And you can pay me back.”

Claude’s whole body stiffens, but Danny holds his hands up.

“Not with . . . no. When you have a job, you can pay rent. You can help me watch the boys, you can mow the lawn, whatever. If you ever decide that you want me like I want you, then . . . But I don’t expect it. I don’t want anything that you don’t want.”

Claude’s heart is lodged in his throat, it’s the only reason he can’t talk. Not because he doesn’t have something to say. He has a million things to say.

It sounds like too much, it sounds like a lie coming from the man who’s already paid him to want it before. Hell is paved with good intentions, words like ‘we did it for the children’ and ‘I was paying you for sex because I thought it was the only way I could help you’, and Claude’s not sure he can trust him yet, but he thinks yeah. Maybe someday. Claude’s totally overwhelmed beyond all reason, but when he moves to kiss Danny the other man melts into it like gratitude, like relief, and yeah, Claude thinks. He can forgive. Maybe even right now.

He’s not being paid to kiss Danny, so he doesn’t have to make it good. There’s a weird freedom in that, one he hasn’t felt in so fucking long, kissing for the joy of it, and because it’s Danny. And because it’s Danny it’s always good.

They have sex in Danny’s bed, Claude pinning him down a little as they move, and there’s gratitude in his eyes when he leans down to kiss him, but there’s also relief, and desire, and he lets himself show them to Danny. They might not be doing this very much, not until Claude can get a handle on who he is and what he really wants now that he’s allowed to actually want things, but right now he does want this. He wants to feel Danny underneath him, falling apart against and around him, pulling him in for kisses that bruise with how badly they both _want_. And then they fall asleep there, Claude held in Danny’s arms like he’ll never let him go. Claude doesn’t bother to tell Richie where he is yet, because for the first time in years he knows that he’s exactly where he belongs.

The bed is soft and warm and it has Danny in it, so it’s the best bed ever. He wakes up to bright sunlight trickling through the curtains, and Danny is staring at him. This is the first time Danny’s ever really looked at him in bright daylight before, and he’s a little scared. A little nervous, but all Danny does is card his fingers through his hair gently, pull him in for a kiss and whisper “When I see you, all I can think of is sunlight,” into his lips like a revelation.

Danny makes breakfast and Claude stays to eat it even though it’s _horrible_ , he stays when the kids are dropped off, and before he knows it he has his own room in Danny’s house where he’s staying forever because he can’t even conceive of leaving, not even when he gets accepted to college. Somehow Danny and his three boys and his two ugly dogs are home now. He only sleeps in Danny’s bed on nights when the boys aren’t there, and most the time all they do is hold each other, but that’s a million times better than sex if Claude is being honest.


End file.
